<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>fulfill us, complete us, make us whole by chshrkitten</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393086">fulfill us, complete us, make us whole</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chshrkitten/pseuds/chshrkitten'>chshrkitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Nostalgia, Romance, attempts at dramatic irony</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:13:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chshrkitten/pseuds/chshrkitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Christine Daaé makes her choice. Or: what she might have been thinking before the curtain rose. Set during “Before the Performance.”</p><p>Based around the poem “A Cry,” by Sara Teasdale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé &amp; Gustave Daaé, e/c and r/c are mentioned; both somewhat critically</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fulfill us, complete us, make us whole</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i think every day of my life about christine promising gustave that “once this performance is through, we’ll spend some time just us two.” every day of my life that line compromises me emotionally. i am going to start smashing plates.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Oh there are eyes that he can see,<br/>
And hands to make his hands rejoice</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>The cool, dark leather of Erik’s gloves against her skin feels no different now than it did ten years ago, when he took her hand and led her through the glittering frame of that mirror. She remembers the sensation exactly and it hasn’t changed, although of course the diamond setting of her wedding band catches on the stitched seam of his glove, as if to remind her of all that has changed between them. </p><p>Just as he did in Paris, Erik clutches her hands, engulfing them in his own. Just as he did in Paris, he pleads with her, so quickly and passionately that his words run together in her half-fevered mind. <em>Set the music in you free--two strands entwined---make us whole---our bond, forevermore, oh Christine, my Christine!</em> His voice echoes in her ears.</p><p>Unlike last time, Christine is old and wise enough to realize that it doesn’t matter whether she processes Erik’s words or not. This isn’t a conversation, and she knows he won’t give her a chance to answer. </p><p>And yet, just like in Paris, he stands before her, begging her to follow him into the music. Begging for… well. Not for her love, not really. She gave him that a long time ago, and it’s no one’s fault that it never really did him much good. </p><p>As always, he stands before her, and he will lead her to heaven or to hell if she lets him. And it is always for the music.</p><p>He traces her face with delicate fingertips that tremble against the fine curve of her brow bone. His eyes are wide and dark, a tumult of anger and adoration. </p><p>*</p><p>
  <em>But to my lover I must be,<br/>
Only a voice.</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>He loves her so very much, Christine knows, leaning her cheek into his palm because this is the last chance she will ever get to be selfish like this before an ocean separates them once again. He loves her so much, and none of that love is really for <em>her.</em></p><p>“It’s all I ask, Christine.” He murmurs. “Just let me hear you sing once more. Let me see you embrace your destiny. Grant me that peace, and my gratitude will be eternal.”</p><p>When Christine thinks of her destiny, she thinks of the ten year old boy who might not have Raoul’s hair but does have her eyes. She thinks of her destiny, who is probably being ushered into his seat of honor beside Raoul right now, so excited to see his mother perform. </p><p>Erik gasps as she clutches him to her fiercely, burying her head in his chest. <em>I will miss you.</em> She thinks. <em>Damn it, I will miss both of you, for the rest of my life.</em></p><p>*</p><p>
  <em>Oh, there are breasts to bear his head,<br/>
And lips whereon his lips can lie,</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>“Just nerves.” She whispers, and doesn’t let go of him. “I haven’t sung for you in a long time, my angel.”</p><p>“Oh, child.” Erik murmurs, voice sonorous and smooth. “You have only ever sung for me. I have always been with you.”</p><p>It’s not true, though she supposes he thinks it is (and she loves him for that sincerity as much as she hates him for that presumption). As Erik leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, she contradicts him in her mind. </p><p><em>I sing only for myself</em> (a truth and a lie). <em>And you chose not to stay.</em> And maybe that was the right decision, whatever his reasons. She isn’t angry at him for it anymore.</p><p>Christine leans in towards the mirror, angling her head to check the contours of her stage makeup. The soft chemical smell of it is familiar and comforting. She’ll miss that. But the stage--the music--can’t be her first priority right now.</p><p>She tried to explain that to Raoul earlier. Tried to explain the madness that always seemed to surround her and her career eventually. She tried to explain the helplessness she felt when she thought of how her son is growing up practically without her. The vortex her family always seems to be trapped in.</p><p>Raoul had listened, eventually. He quieted down, and watched her intently, the way he had when they were children and he drank in every word she said.</p><p>She’s ready to make her own choices now. Just as she promised Gustave earlier, when Raoul’s back was turned: tomorrow morning she’ll leave, clutching tickets for a ship that will carry her far away from this soot-stained city and leave behind both of the men she couldn’t be a wife to. She’ll bring her son with her. God willing, they’ll figure out the rest from there.</p><p>A stagehand taps politely on the door. “Miss Daaé,” they call--<em>Miss Daaé , the name that is no longer her legal name, the name that has not been hers for many years</em>--”it’s time.”</p><p>Her final performance. The last time she’ll sing for her angel. The last time she’ll sing for her husband. From now on, her voice will belong only to herself and the Lord. </p><p><em>One last performance,</em> she smiles to herself, <em>and La Daaé will never sing again. I’ll be free.</em></p><p>*</p><p>
  <em>But I must be till I am dead,<br/>
Only a cry.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you thought?</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>